


Between Two Lungs

by spinel



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gigolas Week, M/M, the Undying Lands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:58:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spinel/pseuds/spinel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A morning in Valinor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between Two Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fifth day of [Gigolas Week](http://gigolasweek.tumblr.com/) for the prompt 'The Undying Lands'. 
> 
> This was a trial in 1) some sort of flash fic (I wrote this in two hours), and 2) a way of trying to interpret this prompt with no death (since everyone is doing that much better than I ever could).
> 
> Title from Florence and the Machine.

Their mornings are different, now that they have reached the western shores. Peace mutes Elvish sorrow to an appreciable dullness, and kith and kin are a balm to Legolas, for the passing of Aragorn and Gimli's inexorably advancing age have affected him deeply. But time passes slower in Aman, and here Legolas sleeps, longer and more soundly than he did in Arda.

His eyes are closed in repose, and Gimli does not know if it is a side-effect of too much time spent in each other's company, or if Elvenhome allows the weary to sleep all the sleep that has been denied to them earlier. Here, he wakes before Legolas, for even a Dwarf his age may not lie idle in bed for long. He takes care, untangling himself from between the long Elvish limbs and slipping out of their sheets, not to disturb his husband. Legolas is curled on his side, pale and narrow body tangled in the deep blue coverlet, his hair a golden halo on the pillow. Gimli's breath hitches and he is struck, as he is is every morning, by the joy he feels when he sees Legolas, the furrow in his brow smoothed out in sleep, his breathing deep and relaxed, whole and fulfilled and trying to roll into the space Gimli has just vacated.

He goes for quick ablutions, for his bladder is not what it was. There are deep wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his hair is now pure white. It has thinned and subdued with age, both on his head and at his chin, but the soft strands still escape his plaits every morning. He is old, and that is the truth of it. But at least he doesn't creak, he thinks wryly, heading to their small kitchen. If Valinor is good at something it is at dulling painful aches, both physical and spiritual.

Legolas was never much of a cook, and here he thinks about food even less. To Gimli's disenchantment, it is true of him as well: but he persists, for what is any day without a hearty breakfast? So he cracks some eggs, twirling the shells away deftly even with his gnarly fingers, and sets the mixture on the small stove as he presses the juice out of strange, sweet Elvish fruits that do not grow on Arda anymore.

He does not startle when a long arm slips around his shoulders, and Legolas rests his chin atop his head. "I see you are hard at work, my love," Legolas murmurs, words lost in the disheveled white strands going this way and that.

"Someone has to," Gimli replies, setting two cups filled with juice and the scrambled eggs on the table tucked in a corner. Heat kindles low in his gut at the sight of his Elf, half-awake and bare-chested. "I would greet the new day with you, ghivashel." He gently tugs on Legolas' bare arms until the Elf stoops low, and firmly presses his lips to the beloved mouth. "Let us break fast."

Legolas only smiles and takes a seat. He mostly pushes the eggs around their shared plate but drinks both their glasses of juice. 

It is very different from their old mornings, when they were in Ithilien or Aglarond. At every moment someone was searching for either one or both of them, Elves and Dwarves requiring arbitration, advice or simply signatures. Most of their time together was spent in the evening, stretching sometimes into the small hours of the morning, but rarely had they risen together, spending the start of the day in each other's company.

So Gimli relishes the comfortable silence in the cold, white morning, his bare sole absently running up and down Legolas' shin, pushing the thin material of his sleeping bottoms further and further up to his knee. He realises their hands have found each other, as they have been doing more and more often, his fingertips caressing the underside of Legolas' wrist, his soft palm, his calloused fingers.

"I would go back to bed, if you would give me the pleasure of your company," Legolas says, voice low.

"Not just my company, my love," Gimli replies with an exaggerated leer, laughter muffled as Legolas leans in swiftly for a hard kiss.

"I would have you, Gimli," Legolas whispers against his lips. "Like we used to, when we'd visit Fangorn."

"My hips won't carry me there, lad," Gimli snorts. "But what about fucking you the way we did last week?"

A full body-shiver courses through Legolas, Gimli's coarse tongue working its magic as always. "That would be acceptable," he hums, hands tightening in the fall of Gimli's white beard.

"Glad to have your approval," Gimli says drily, pushing the long body away from him. "And now for a mattress, because we are too old for these chairs."

They both laugh as they head back to the bedroom, and Gimli tumbles Legolas gently onto their jumbled sheets, kisses down the pale body, mouth lingering on thin pectorals, tongue licking at the soft outline of ribs. These shores are changing them both, but it is nothing compared to the boon of more time by the side of his beloved. Legolas is panting softly, much quieter than he was on Arda, body slower to arousal and calmer in its peak. But Gimli's fingers and mouth know every nook and cranny of his body, and the vial by the side of the bed finds itself well-used.

It takes some time, but when the sun reaches high in the heavens Legolas is sweating, legs apart, with four of Gimli's fingers comfortable inside him. His hands are fisted in the ruined coverlet and he curses in his liquid tongue, knees tightening around Gimli's trembling frame. "I am begging you, meleth nín, Gimli nín, for the love of your Maker--" He gasps when Gimli kneels up, replaces his fingers with his thick cock and thrusts slowly, fully impaling Legolas upon his impressive girth. They settle into a gentle rhythm which reminds Gimli of the sea coming to die on the shore. It takes some time, but Legolas' cries increase in pitch slowly, his hands cradling Gimli's white head, and Gimli's hands remain busy, one at Legolas' hip, the other around his slender cock. They both finish on an exhale, lips and mouths against each other, sharing a breath.

"And a good morning to you, my love," Legolas says, once he has regained his breath.

"It is afternoon now, you daft creature," Gimli grumbles. But they are warm, albeit a bit sticky, and are neither needed nor expected nowhere, so they settle in for a nap.


End file.
